


One Word

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Captivity, Collars, I Tried, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Out of Character, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Peter Pan, Repression, Rumplestiltskin Doesn't Exist, Sort Of, Stockholm Syndrome, a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "What will I do with you?" Pan mused, tilting Hook's chin up and marveling at his pliability. Angry blue eyes bore into calm green. He frowned, weighing out which words would be best to use."I'll give you the ability to say one word per day. Temporary, of course. Until you learn to behave."





	One Word

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of what I think would happen if Rumplestiltskin never existed. Comments and kudos appreciated, and this is my first time writing in this particular fandom, so be gentle :)

The bonfire was standing taller than usual, amber flames flickering and licking at the cool air. The fire itself beheld no avid spectators mesmerized by the embers; such a sight was hardly uncommon in Neverland. Around the blaze, numerous thin figures rotated, kicking their heels upwards. Howling to a perpetual sky and shouting at the earth. No tangible words were formed from their lips.

They were mostly silhouetted, the orange of the flames doing little more than cast dancing shadows across their bodies. The heavy scent of smoke was carried into the air and covered a large perimeter. A rare _snap_ from the fire that surrounded them in heat could be heard above the celebratory shouts and cries. They did not heed the added noise any attention, did not increase the volume to drown out any sound whatsoever, continuing their festivities and moving to the hollow beats of a skin drum.

Across the bonfire, a boy was watching the activities with feigned intrigue. His gaze would occasionally stray roughly fifteen feet away, before flicking back. Another glance. A soft frown. Then, a subtle twist of his head in a vain attempt to keep the distraction out of sight.

Another boy stood besides him, but his stare would rest upon loud calls and flailing limbs, unwavering and direct. He watched with obvious longing, and, after a careless yet amused flick of the other boy's hand, rushed towards the activity, joining with a crazed shout of his own.

The other boy remained in his casual lean, arms crossed, pink lips curving into a slight smile. The smile - if it was a smile in the first place - would quickly gain an alarming, almost hungry undertone to it whenever his eyes would travel to the left, where a solitary, slumped figure was kneeling, completely stationary. He appeared to weigh several options out, before giving another flick of his hand. A flute was suddenly hovering above him, then promptly dropped, but did not touch the ground; without batting an eye, his other hand reached out and caught it with practiced ease.

Then, after another lingering glance to the left, he began a hypnotic tune. The quick movements of the boys around the bonfire became rapid, frenzied, and the shouts were loud enough to be carried off into the deaf ears night. Another half-smile. One that looked similar to the hollow notes of a broken piano, curled onto his lips.

The tempo increased in speed, and with that, the movements. They danced unthinkingly to the tune he layed out, not pausing to wonder what  _exactly_ they were doing. Occasionally, there would be a brief, half second hesitation between notes on the flute that was too fleeting to be noticed. His distraction would be due to the thinning restraint he had, evident in the way his foot would tap impatiently against the flat earth as he watched the man.

Finally, he could feel what was left of his patience run out. Ignoring his captive was boring, and he would much rather play with the man first, and continue the festivities later.

He glanced at the silent figure from under his eyelashes, not breaking the mesmeric melody from his flute, only to be surprised that the man matched his gaze. It took a few seconds for him to realise that the man could also hear the tune, that he was as hypnotised as the boys with their flailing limbs around the bonfire. A smirk took hold of his lips. Instead of embarrassment at being caught staring, he yet again increased the tempo of the flute, and watched as the man startled after realising he'd been caught staring, yet he too didn't lift his gaze.

Even from a distance, the boy could see that there was a shallow gash on the side of the man's cheek, undoubtedly from digging his heals into the earth in a failed attempt to not be dragged to the camp. The cut was a warning, undoubtedly, and not deep enough to cause real damage but enough to leave a scar. The ropes that restrained the man were made from rough leather, which would make possible escape slightly more difficult. Watching the man struggle and strain against tight rope was rather alluring. Such a thought leapt unbidden from his mind. He scowled.

Abruptly, there was silence. In turn, the figures stopped dancing, eyes eager and watching the event slowly unfolding before them. There was a near silence, one that was drawn from muted faces and curiousity. The occasional crack of the fire and varied clicks and whistles from wildlife was background noise. The boy approached the figure, ignoring the excited exchange of looks behind him.

Up closer, he could see the man more clearly, could make out small details that the previous distant did not provide. The individual stitches of worn leather that cling to broad shoulders. A few pale, jagged scars across his cheek. The man was kneeling, heels digging into the bottom of his back, and a thin strip of blood stained cloth served as a hasty gag. His head was raised in what he must have thought was defiance. Without a word, the boy stepped closer, carelessly flicking his hand so the flute would disappear. The man didn't react; his eyes were unfocused and directed at something to his right.

_That wouldn't do._

He gently put his hand under the older man's chin, smirking at the startled flinch, and sharply lifted so his angry, _blue_ eyes would look purely at him. With a flick of his hand, the gag was removed.

"Miss me?" Pan asked, voice soft and mocking. Killian shifted in an attempt to shift backwards, away from him. Pan tutted, moving his hand upwards to his injured cheek in a hollow duplication of a lover's caress. The blood from the cut had dried. Killian's breath hitched, and a series of titters from the boys broke out.

"Can't say I have, mate." Killian's voice was hoarse, likely from the lack of use and hydration. He had been in the same position for over five hours.

"A few seconds ago, I doubt you would've been able to say anything." Pan smiled blithely.

"A few _hours_ ago, I was leading my crew off this fucking death trap of an island." Killian replied darkly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Pan quirked an amused eyebrow.

"You don't _leave_ Neverland." 

 _You don't leave me._ Another unbidden (too vulnerable, too accurate) thought, which Pan decided he would ignore. He promptly made up for his pause by tilting his head, frowning innocently.

"Surely you learned that during your last visit?" He asked, then gave a small smirk at the scatterings of jeers behind him. Killian gritted his teeth in a wordless snarl, eyes refusing to leave Pan's face - another attempt at defiance or bravery, both equally pointless. There was a pause, drawn out and tense like strings, until Killian finally glanced away.

"What do you want?" He snapped, which earned him an amused though unimpressed look, as though he were asking the obvious. Which, in truth, he was.

"I already have what I want." Pan mused, then shot a conspicuous glance at the kneeling man, and hastily added, "Mostly."

Another round of sniggers from their audience. Killian tuned his head down, briefly, to glace away from the intensity that was building up. He thinned his lips, and his voice was strained.

"You have me tied up and at your feet. Kill me now or later, I don't care."

Pan leaned in until he could feel Killian's warm breath soft against his neck. He could smell the sharp scent of varied spices, sandalwood, he presumed, leather and something purely Killian that he wanted to chase after, but held himself back. "I don't intend to kill you, Killian. Just... Play with you for a while."

"I'm not a toy, Pan." He replied, voice low with warning despite not having the upper hand. Pan enjoyed the fierceness, despite the extinguished dull threads of lost hope and optimism that clung to his eyes after the death of his brother. It painted an interesting picture, and he would have loved to be the one to put the intriguing despair there, to crush the hope with a flick of his hand.

"You're _mine_. You belong to me, so you are what I say you are."

"You can't _own_ people, mate."

Pan didn't say anything, instead opting to summon an innocent looking strip of leather. With another wave of his hand, the leather was fastened around Hook's neck. Another not-quite-smile was allowed, and Pan stepped back to view his work.

"Beautiful." He whispered, leaning close enough to see the individual flecks of dark and light blue in Killian's iris. The man struggled at this, attempting to dislodge the leather with his shoulder to no avail.

The boys laughed at his obvious humiliation.

"You bastard-"

Pan held up a hand, idly making a muting motion. There was a collective snigger as Killian immediately fell silent, narrowed eyes shining with indignation.

"Don't worry, _mate_ , I'm sure you'll come up with far better uses for that mouth." He smirked.

More sniggers, this time at the enraged glower a muted Killian sent him. Amused, Pan tightened the leather, watching Killian's scowl deepen as he was forced to work slightly harder to draw in air.

"What will I do with you?" Pan mused, tilting Hook's chin up and marveling at his pliability. Angry blue eyes bore into calm green. He frowned, weighing out which words would be best to use.

"I'll give you the ability to say one word per day. Temporary, of course. Until you learn to behave."

"Bastard." Hook spat, and Pan took that for defeated resignation. He nodded to Felix, who tapped the shoulder of the boy he was leaning on.

With that, the drums started up again. Pan smirked, trailing the gash on his cheek with the pad of his index finger, before turning away.

 

 

**

 

 

It was three days before Pan decided to visit his captain in a makeshift prison. After assigning one of his boys, one of the newer, more innocent ones, Pierre, to be on guard and bring things for the man to eat, clean and drink with, he waited. For the first day, Killian had predictably used his word for an insult, and had snapped  _fucker_ at Pierre, then paced restlessly around in the continued search of escape. The second day, as soon as Pierre opened the door, he lunged for the exit, only to receive a quick, harsh warning with the heel of a sword. Three days with scarce things to eat would weaken. After two hours of silence, Hook had said  _leave,_ so Pierre did.

The third day, Pan was aching with curiousity, so he visited his captain, dismissing Pierre from his watchful post.

He examined the area impassively. Killian was slumped in the corner, his hands unbound, but the collar stayed on. Pan licked his lips unconsciously, an oddly possessive emotion stirring uncomfortably in his chest, before he crossed the room to stand in front of him. Finally, his captain looked up, and when he recognised who was in front of him, his eyes blazed with rage.

"Boy." Killian snapped, teeth bared and Pan couldn't help but bask in the fury, the pure, delicious fury that was directed all at him. There was a strange pride in the fact that Killian's only word was directed at him.

"I'm older than you." Pan reminded lightly. He could see that Killian wanted to contradict that claim, but his words were stolen, so he resorted to glowering up at him. Pan leaned over his captain, fingers first trailing over the healing cut on his cheek, then to the leather around his throat. The pulse under his fingertips was steadily increasing, and Killian was holding his breath, and seemingly unaware of doing so. 

"The collar won't come off, Killian, unless I want it to." Pan breathed, examining the small scratches against the smooth surface. His eyes briefly flicked down to glance at the man's broad chest, then back up to the collar, and leaned backwards.

"I'll see you later, captain." After another lingering, purposefully conspicuous sweep of his eyes, Pan turned to leave, smirking when he heard a shaky exhale.

 

 

**

 

 

"Crew."

This was repeated for several days.

 

 

**

 

 

Pan's frustration was building.

Killian was his, and by now, everyone knew it. All of his attention should be on _him_ , and only him, not a group of men that weren't worthy of his captain's attention. Every time Killian would ask for their well-being, Pan would roll his eyes, responding with a bored, "The ones who were alive when they got to the camp are still alive," then adding with a faux-confused look, "They haven't asked for you." Even though Pan knew that they physically couldn't; the ones that hadn't been gagged had their tongues cut off.

By the seventh day it was getting overly redundant. That afternoon, there was another festivity; one that was abundant bloodshed and violence to appease the boys. The shouts and cries and chants were loud enough for someone miles away to hear. The drums did not keep a steady beat, capricious due to the added excitement of that particular day. Pan, however, would continue hypnotic notes in a steady pace, too fast to be humanly possible, and watched in amusement as the boys would desperately try to keep up with it.

The next day when Killian asked for his crew, eyes wide with dread, all Pan did was smile.

 

 

**

 

 

"Demon."

Days passed, and his tone varied. At first, disgusted contempt. Even after his word, the hate filled accusation hung in his eyes and, once or twice, Pan could see a tremor in his right hand, undoubtedly from the desire to _attack_ , to hit. Those days he wouldn't even try to stop himself from continuing to torment his captain, asking questions about his brother, his crew, his past freedom. One time, Killian did move, sharply and with obvious intent, but Pan merely laughed, and with a wave of his hand, Killian was chained to the wall by his wrists, still seething with rage, writhing in an attempt to escape. That day, Pan couldn't help but lean into Killian's breathing space, and slowly trail his hand downwards, resting on his captain's hip. Despite the darkened eyes and mild panting, Killian tried to avoid his touch.

After four days, it was whispered. Not as an accusation, but a realisation. It was beautiful, to see the dismay in his captain's face when he realised exactly _where_ the situation put him. Pan smirked, carding a hand through soft black hair, ignoring the involuntary shiver Killian responded with.

 

 

**

 

 

By the twelfth day, his patience, already limited, was waning. Killian was still clinging tenaciously to his past life, which would be amusing if it wasn't so frustrating. It would take time for Pan to shatter his resistance, his hope of escape, but when he did, it would be exquisite. To see a proud, defiant man kneel to him, eyes still ablaze with muted anger.

Although, that would be later on, and for now, Pan would taunt him with speech of his past, reminiscent about his brother and the unassuming plant that was his death.

Days passed. Killian was responding more strongly to his touch. Whenever Pan would reach out to touch soft, dark hair, Killian's steady pulse would quicken, and sometimes, he would even lean into the caress. It would take a few seconds for him to recognise the way he responded, and he would recoil, cheeks burning brighter than the hatred in his eyes. Often, this would cause an unbearable amount of  _want_  for Pan,the flushed cheeks and slightly darkened eyes gazing up at him and pushing him towards the edge. Pan would have to breath in heavily after these particular visits in order to steady himself, away from the distracting combination of leather and sandalwood.

It was on one particular day, when Killian leaned into his touch moreso than usual, and did not pull away, did his patience finally snap. He pulled his captain up, ignoring the way he tensed, and finally claimed his lips with his own. With one hand, he held Killian's wrists, and the other found his broad, hard chest. Killian was delightfully compliant, but not completely submissive; there was a silent opposition, and Pan couldn't wait to make his captain yield fully to him.

His lips were chapped against his own. The sheer intensity was as enticing as the warm, wet heat of his captain's mouth. He tasted impossibly sweet, and Pan tried to capture that taste, put it to memory.

Too soon, Killian was pulling backwards. Pan paused, leaning back to examine his captain. Dilated pupils, rapid pulse, quick breathing. Killian darted his tongue out to lick his lips. He looked perfectly, invitingly wreaked after one kiss. Despite that, there was unease.

"No." His voice was rough and lustful, breath coming in shallow, heavy pants. Pan frowned. It would be easy, if he so desired, to force his captain and take his pleasure against his will, to use it against his captain.

It was obvious Killian still desired him. Yet, he had said no. And judging by the way he pressed his back against the wall, almost in _retreat_ (his captain  _never_ retreated), he _meant_ no.

The fire behind his eyes was blazing, and he knew that if he went any further without consent, the fire would be gone, blanketed by a permanent frost where which nothing returned. It would kill him, and Pan needed him alive, _wanted_ him alive.  He wanted the fire behind his captain's eyes to be ignited with desire, not betrayal - ignited with a steady _want_ that would refuse to be sated without his touch. Pan could tell that he would fight it, at first, likely because Pan looked young and Killian still has his morals; eroded, over time, but still there. Yet, slowly, he knew that he would wear away any resistance he might face.

He had given Killian the idea of a possibility, and for now, that was enough.

He didn't go any further.

 

 

**

 

 

He changed tactics, and cut off his little visits.

Of course, he would still check in on him, but through Pierre's reports of how he was doing, and, more importantly, the use of his word. For two days, it would be ' _leave_ ', and Pan could feel his impatience increase. By the third day, the lack of communication, which was already low in the first place, seemed to wear down on Killian, as Pierre had remained quite, only occasionally giving small comments when he checked in on him. This was less frustrating for Pan to deal with. Loneliness, like lust, was easily manipulated. He could deal with Killian's silence and return it with silence of his own. The fourth day, Pierre was instructed to remain completely silent. The silence stretched into the fifth day, until Killian finally snapped, ' _speak_ '. Pan continued to cut off his visits, even if he spent the rest of the day bored out of his mind.

Until the ninth day, when Killian had said  _Peter._

 

 

**

 

 

The next day, there was an obvious difference in his captain. He seemed to have gotten little to no sleep the night before. He was running on low energy. It took Killian a few seconds to look up when Pan entered the room, but when he did, his eyes widened, but he remained silent. Pan quirked an eyebrow.

"You asked for me. Yesterday." Killian nodded, biting his lip, eyes not leaving Pan's face. 

"Miss me?" He asked. Instead of answering verbally, Killian glanced away, scowling slightly, then looked back to make eye contact. He was seconds away from doing _something_. Pan smiled blithely.

"As delightful as I find these little social meetings, I really must go."

This startled Killian into action. He stepped forward (too quickly, judging by the way he stumbled slightly), and reached out to stop him, hand almost touching but not quite - close enough for Pan to feel the heat of his palm.

"Please." He whispered, voice rough, and Pan would have missed him saying that if he wasn't looking for it.

Pan smirked.

 _That_ was what he had been waiting for.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Sees Typo.
> 
> Me:
> 
> Me: Gosh dang it.


End file.
